


1984: Struck

by AsbestosMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Historical AU, I lived through this, It's all a bit kinky, Laid-back Tops, Lawyer!Stannis, M/M, Miner's Strike 1984, Not as porny as it was supposed to be, Political movements of the 1980s, Pushy Bottoms, Sex? In my fics?!, Slash, Stannis and his repressed fantasies, Stoke has it's own tag and it's awesome, Stoke-on-Trent represent, Unashamedly '80s, UnionRep!Davos, surprise feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 10:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1984. The Miner's Strike is in full swing, the Tory government is most unhappy, but not quite as unhappy as the miners.  Stannis Baratheon,  government/Coal Board lackey, lawyer, and high-flying yuppie of the first degree, is sent to deal with a notoriously stubborn local secretary of the National Union of Mineworkers. Davos Seaworth just wants to keep his pit open, and is perfectly willing to play a little dirty if necessary; after all, the livelihoods of his sons and pseudo-family of miners is at stake.</p><p>Stavos, politics, socialism, right-wingers, tea-drinking, protests, Bronn in leather (as is the law), Devan being really sweet, SanSan mentions, Blackfish/Jon Connington manlove, my ubiquitous Sam/Jon Snow sneaking in there, '80s pop-culture references, and historical facts. All in one fic. It's all light and amusing and foreplay-ish, then sexy and naughty, and then decided to grab me by the feels. Dammit. No porn without plot for me, it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1984: Struck

* * *

 

 

Stannis Baratheon examined himself in the rear view mirror of his Y-reg Jaguar XJ-S (British Racing Green, cream leather interior, top of the range German sound system as requested by his daughter), then realised he was doing exactly what every female yuppie in the north west of England did every morning before work. Primping. No lipstick, however; not that sort of man. Just an adjustment to the royal blue tie that Melisandre, his P.A., told him brought out the jewel tones of his eyes, a quick check of cufflinks (all present and correct, sporting the black stag of Baratheon Brothers law firm in onyx, eighteen carat gold surround, tasteful when compared to Renly and Robert’s excesses) and that the finish of his overly-expensive but to be perfectly honest he could afford them suede loafers remained shoe-shop pristine.

 

Right.

 

Time to deal with the miners.

 

Some of whom eyed his car.

 

They had promised police. Where were the police?

 

* * *

 

“Lawyer’s here, Dad.” Devan, safety pinned and Doc Martened, still stuck in his 1979 sixteen year old punk phase, stamped his way into the makeshift office. He favoured the ubiquitous fourteen hole oxblood red boot beloved by skinheads and the National Front, jeans that would make even George Michael blush, and Davos despaired in the loving and kindly way that all fathers did when unsure of their child’s sartorial choices. Devan, as far from being a right-wing racist scumbag as could be expected, who had black friends for God’s sake, who was possibly his favourite son but never tell the ex-wife that, would be the death of him. At least, if Scargill and the strike didn’t take him down first.

 

“Nice car.” Bronn grinned. He always grinned. Amusement often. Malice sometimes. Devilry constantly. Clegane, lounging and taking up too much space and drinking tea, grunted. The big Scot worked elsewhere these days, something to do with this fitness lark with gyms, and was talking about getting into the business himself since Davos had got him a healthy worker’s compensation payout after the matter with his face. A little bit of six foot seven of menacing Jock hanging about never hurt matters. Sandor even put some cash aside for the miners every month, since the strike was apparently illegal and Thatcher and her cronies said that the picketers couldn’t apply for the dole. Families went without. Clegane said he and the Missus didn’t want the bairns going hungry.  Nice girl that Sansa, posh sort. She’d gone to university, not a polytechnic, and everything. She spoke French.

 

“Don’t, Bronn. We could do without you being arrested again.” They’d managed to scrape bail money, finally, to get the idiot released.

 

“Occupational hazard.” More tea magically appeared. Outside the gates of the pit other miners milled about the steel bin braziers, chanted solidarity to their brothers-in-arms, considered waving their placards menacingly at the Jag. It was too bloody cold for this. Wives and daughters brought flasks and food when they could. Much mocking of bussed-in scabs, throwing anything to hand at the wire-reinforced windows of the battered coaches. Sometimes the coppers would turn up, and depending if you got the alright sort or the bastard sort, there would be civilised enough chatter or scuffles. Bronn, banned from going anywhere near any sort of fighting since last time, usually yelled cheerful encouragement from the office. 

 

“Lawyer’s not getting out the car, Dad.”

 

“Would you?”

 

Devan sighed, giving his father a mildly exasperated look. Bloody lawyers. This happened often; some wealthy bugger in a designer suit and a nice car turned up, had no idea how to empathise with the plight of the miners, would try and argue the toss, and then would bugger off and write that the men of Wolstanton, like all the others in almost every bloody pit all over the UK, would not give in to governmental and Coal Board pressure.

 

“I’ll go get him.” No one else bothered to move, so his son - and Devan had a brain, he could do anything he wanted, but mining was what Seaworths were good at and had done for a hundred years, and at the time the lad reached eighteen they desperately needed another wage in the household, and Davos bore so much guilt because of it - squared his not inconsiderable torso, wading into the sea of bodies.

* * *

  
  
“Mr. Seaworth.”

 

“Please, call me Davos. Tea?”

 

Stannis did not know where to sit; the suit was Ralph Lauren, everything seemed tainted with a thin layer of coal dust and grubbiness. At least he had eschewed the trend towards the pastel, more comfortable in dark navy pinstripe than duck-egg or powder blue; hopefully any marks would not be noticeable. The punk, who frankly was too bulky for the fashion and muscled in the way that hard work and no gym membership encouraged (unlike the men who sweated in his local health club and who managed to look somehow artificial) took pity, finding a slightly less disgusting cushion. He placed it with an unexpected flourish upon a rickety high-backed dining chair, no doubt sourced from someone’s terribly working-class kitchen. Were those safety pins through his eyebrows? And his ears? The youth of today.

 

"No, no thank you.” Where were the washing facilities? Could they even guarantee clean mugs and fresh milk? Surely there were health and safety issues at play?

 

The secretary of the Wolstanton branch of the National Union of Mineworkers was not quite what Stannis expected. He thought that the enormous scarred man in black (gym membership  _ and _ hard work?) had to be Mr. Seaworth, since tales of the man’s incalcitrance seemed to haunt every lawyer assigned to deal with Wolstanton. Frankly the Scotsman was terrifying. But no. Davos Seaworth had bright warm eyes, interesting shoulders, a neat beard running towards grey, and an accent decidedly north of the Potteries. He seemed dependable, a decent sort, no ravaging harpy of a Labourite left-wing Thatcher-hating militant. Working-class, salt of the earth,seriously decent shoulders. Did miners still take coal from seams by hand? Was it that that did that did wonders for their physique? An idle image of a shirtless, thoroughly fascinatingly built Seaworth, sweaty and coal-dusted and wearing nothing but big heavy boots and a miner’s helmet sprang unfortunately to mind.

 

This was neither the time or place to fantasise about bits of rough. Stannis did indulge, in his fastidious and discreet way. Less these days since the news of that awful disease, of course, and usually with partners who were less than profligate in their affections. He favoured the older and un-racy, the sorts who understood the need for contraception in these worrying times. Seaworth, unfortunately, was very much the type that Stannis Baratheon enjoyed. Requisite shoulders. Facial hair a plus. Kindly. Stocky. Very good smile.

 

Which made several things, including himself, much harder.

 

“I-” and he cleared his throat, Stannis aware of a strange thick quality to his voice and blaming it squarely on breathing in too much of the infernal dust. “I am here on behalf of the National Coal Board and the government, to formally request that you break this illegal picket and return to work forthwith.” He placed the binder upon his lap, cunningly concealing any hint of the burgeoning erection that threatened. 

 

“Ah, Mr-?”

 

“Mr. Baratheon. Stannis.” It was important that Seaworth knew his full name. He wondered if Davos Seaworth was vocal when someone sucked his cock. Was he a hair-grabber, did he control with hands and voice? Was he, and Stannis swallowed once more. Dominant? 

 

“Stannis.” No formality here, not with a warm-eyed man with a soft smile and grooved forearms. Who made Davos roll his sleeves above his elbows? Surely that was a tactic. Did he know? Did he have an inkling that Stannis Baratheon, partner in the family law firm (apart from Renly who was far too canny to have to work with their elder brother), father to a fourteen year old girl and divorcee, was a flaming whoopsie as Robert cheerfully called him? This must be a tactic. Stannis had no idea how to deal with such underhanded ways. And arms. No, he could deal with the arms. Just not there. Or then. Damnation.

 

“Stannis.” Lovely voice, low and gentle and understanding. “We can’t and won’t stop striking. They want to close the pit. What would my boys do for work then?”

 

“Surely other jobs-?”

 

“In Stoke?” He leaned forward, and Stannis saw the dark (silver salt-and-pepper and tantalising) hair on the man’s strong chest as the soft old checked shirt he wore draped, as if it knew. Even the blasted clothing was in on it. “We’re losing the pot banks every day, the Potteries is going to be without the pottery; it’s all going to China and the Far East now. Skilled labour is far more expensive than some sweat shop. So many men and women are out of work already. Then you add all of us miners to that? What will that do to the area, Stannis? How many thousand of us, proud working men and women who want to do something and not be idle, want to work and provide, sitting at home vegetating, claiming the dole, because what else we can do? Good people who want to do right by their families. I’m well into my forties, what chance do I have? What chance does Bronn have with a criminal record, one that’s come from being so passionate about  _ this _ ? What about Devan, brilliant lad, cleverer than his old man by a country mile, but when he can’t get the education due to circumstance, because we needed him to work. He should be at uni, not down the pit with me, but we couldn’t afford for him to go and lose a wage from the house.”

 

Seaworth was missing the first four fingertips of his left hand. Was it kinky that Stannis wanted to have that maimed digits to slide all over every square inch of his own naked body? God, he kept zoning into that pleasant fantasy area that should not be accessed during working hours. He took a deep breath.  _ Concentrate, Stannis. _

 

“I see your point, Mr. Seaworth, and I do sympathise with the difficulties you and your colleagues are experiencing-”

 

“Fuck’s sake,” the Scottish brute rumbled. The accent tended to impenetrable Glaswegian, the Minotaur’s ham fists clenching. All Stannis could think of was how Davos might taste, just at that bare point under his ear where the neat beard did not grow, and how painful it would be to get punched by someone that enormous.   


 

"Bronn, if you and Sandor could take Devan and please guard Mr. Baratheon’s car?” 

 

“And miss the fun?” The skinny weasely-handsome man with the crooked smirk wrapped a hand about this Sandor’s wrist (that wrist definitely thicker than Stannis’ neck) and propelled the man outside with surprisingly little fuss. The punk lingered though. In twenty years and a serious rethink of his fashion sense, Stannis knew, he would be entirely shaggable. Too young now, but-

 

“You going to be alright, Dad?”

 

Dad. Oh God. He even bred gorgeous sons. Stannis didn’t have sons, he only had Shireen who was a lovely girl and very intelligent, but as a Baratheon he wanted a boy to pass on the name and legacy. The thought of having to rely on Robert’s horrid offspring to carry the family legend gave him sleepless nights.

 

“I’m fine, lad. Get going, stop Bronn doing anything unfortunate, eh?”

 

A faint smile, and yes, in two decades this Devan would be devastating, before the youth clumped down the shaky stairs of the Porta-Cabin, slamming the door shut. Everything shuddered.

 

“How on earth does he walk in those boots?” Could Davos borrow the boots? He could buy Davos the boots. Any boots. As long as he wore nothing else while wearing them. He could budget for footwear. He’d put it as necessary expenses on the company credit card.

 

Davos grinned, and Stannis’ trousers constricted, boa-esque. “No idea. He’s been in them since ‘79, since girls happened and then he discovered Debbie Harry. I came home one day to him playing this infernal racket on the record player, and there were these posters of all these bands with strange hair all over his room. Good lad. I’ve got seven of ‘em.”

 

Virile. Straight. God. No. This was unfair! Stannis licked his lips carefully, his mouth terribly dry. If he were not afraid of catching Typhus he would have begged a drink of water or for Davos to bugger him across the desk, so naturally he kept himself from uttering a single word.

 

“Dale, my eldest, he’s in the Navy. Traditionally we were a sailing family way back when, apparently some of us were at Trafalgar, he got inspired. Allard, Maric and Devan are down the pit with me. Matthos is studying to be a priest of all things.” He shrugged. “No idea where he came from, Matthos. I mean Marya is Catholic but she never really does Mass or anything, just at Christmas. Then there’s the two little ones, Steffon and Stannis. They live with their Mam.”

 

“My father’s name was Steffon, and mine is-” Obviously. Idiot.

 

“But that’s why I’m doing this,” Davos interrupted quietly. “I mean, I could just about get by if needed, I could claim for my hand and get my giro and I’d survive. Got the compo for the injury still in the bank for a rainy day, though it’s dwindled since I’ve got three hungry miners to feed apart from me and if this isn’t rainy then what is? It would be embarrassing, claiming benefit, but I would if it meant the lads were alright. I’m a proud man when it comes to work. I’ve worked since I was fourteen, moved down here when they needed some fresh workers, been here ever since. This is all I know. I’d do it though. But my boys. They deserve a life. They deserve a chance to make something of themselves.”

 

“Down a pit?” Stannis arched an eyebrow. Davos did not break stride, his tone still soft, almost lecturing.

 

“For some of us it’s all we know, or can do, or could even dream of aspiring to. Steady work, steady pay, hard at times but you’re working with friends, and relatives, men you’ve known for twenty years and more. My boys grew up around the pit, this is their family Stannis. It’s my family since, well, since me and Marya split up. Before that probably. How could I sit back and watch Thatcher and MacGregor take that away? Not just from me and mine, but from everyone?”

 

* * *

 

  
“Wonder how long it’ll take this one to break.” Devan admired the car. He’d love to buy Dad something smart like this, rather than the knackered Mini they shared. Four big men in a Mini sounded like the start of some joke off the telly.

 

“Bet?” Bronn perked up even more, leaning against the gleaming pristine bonnet of the Jag. He’d put his mug of tea on the roof, a token protest.

 

“If he lasts longer than the Dwarf,” Clegane rumbled, “I owe ye fifty pence.”

 

“Fifty whole pence. Be fuckin' minted.”

 

“We’re in the middle of a fuckin’ strike, ye knob.”

 

“You’re not.” Bronn gave one of those maddening quicksilver grins. “You almost own a fucking gym and the missus is friggin’ loaded. Giss a job?”

 

Sandor chuckled, a rarely-heard sound. “If I was goin’ to employ one of you cunts, it’d be Dev. Skinny wee shite like you? No chance.”

 

Maybe a Capri, Devan dreamed? Or a Cortina, like off  _ The Professionals _ ? Then he could borrow it and go on the pull, and girls who look like Joan Jett would fall over themselves. That’d be brilliant.

 

* * *

The lawyer was not as frustrating as the several who had been before. The Lannister lot had thrown not one, not two, but three legal sorts at him; the woman was useless and definitely on coke. The one-handed one (‘call me Jaime, mate’), who of any of them seemed to understand the most, he was a good lad. Army career, though pensioned off with that injury. They spent most of the time chatting about coping without having certain body parts, nipping whisky from Davos’ emergency hip flask. Tyrion, however, came the closest to testing Davos’ resolve. Genial, too clever for his own bloody good, perfectly aware of everything. Worse still, he’d liked the Dwarf. 

 

The Targaryen girl, who Devan followed about like a puppy to the amusement of the other miners - like they didn’t stare at the pale beauty with the purple eyes, had to be wearing contact lenses - and still spoke of in wistful tones, had turned bleeding left wing after listening to Davos. Apparently she was working with Scargill and trying to change the world these days. Something about abolishing human rights issues in the east, or something, and he’d had to laugh when Devan had said with an innocent sparkling humour that he didn’t think Norfolk was that bloody bad.

 

A few others, who were sent packing early on. Wolstanton was the tough nut in the entire whatever denomination nuts came in. Bunches? Herds? To get Mr. Seaworth to acquiesce to demands, to break the strike, would guarantee a large government payout to the legal team involved and the quiet patronage of several of the larger nationalised firms. Being the deepest and largest colliery in Europe meant that Wolstanton held a certain place within the nation’s interest; Davos had quietly avoided the television interviews, but quite often the news waggons lurked hopefully.

 

Stannis Baratheon seemed as up his own arse as any other legal advocate, but carried himself with a dignity that was appealing. Nice eyes. Proper as an old aunt mind, sitting knees together and his papers primly laid across his lap. Everything he wore, from his Rolex to probably his designer underwear, shrieked class and money. Occasionally the man turned very slightly pink about the ears, eyes glazing, before coming back to Davos’ monologue. Not boredom, not really. He skipped back through their conversation, noting the points where the reactions occurred.

 

Davos, curious, spread his hands upon the desk. The action made the cording in his forearms twist, muscled from a lifetime of hard graft, and what was even more interesting was Stannis Baratheon’s expression. Really very interesting indeed, the way the nice, no actually, gorgeous eyes, definitely better than just merely nice, widened just a tad. The way the lawyer’s breath  caught just momentarily.

 

Possibly?

 

He chanced something. Changed direction easily, since they had fallen into a light, polite conversation about their kids. Stannis had a daughter, and sadly seemed quite disappointed of the fact. Poor lass.

 

“Did you see that the Welsh miners are marching at Pride down in London this year?”

 

Stannis Baratheon, long-limbed and staid and perfectly clad in a suit that cost more than a month’s rent for the miner, blinked.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, the MGB? Nah, that’s a car. LGB? Is that right? Think I might have forgot some letters-” 

 

“Forgotten.” Stannis’ voice had taken on a breathless quality.

 

“Think it is them anyway, with those letters. They’re supporting the Welsh miners, going and helping and raising money for families and such, and in return the miners are marching at Pride. First non-gay group to do so apparently.”

 

Stannis nodded, swallowing. “That is very...noble of them.” Fidgeting. The man was fidgeting.

 

“Aye, nice bunch of lads and lasses. I met a few when I’ve been on marches. I go around the country and see how everyone’s holding up, it’s stressful for everyone after all. We have to support each other.”

 

Not possibly. Definitely. The lawyer’s ears burned scarlet at the tips, even if his expression remained carefully impassive. Davos rested forward on his elbows, bearded chin cupped in his palms. “I had one or two of them-” Pausing, taking a long sip of water. Waiting for a reaction he knew would occur. 

 

The pink spread, crept across Stannis’ lofty cheekbones. He cleared his throat again, recrossing his legs. Davos always found something to niggle at with the lawyers. Cersei’s yuppie drug habit. Dany’s softness when faced with the common people fighting against The Man. Jaime hadn’t even bothered to try. Tyrion, too professional, had admitted his defeat with dignity. Just a tiny hint of something he could jump on, and he could run with it all day long if it meant protecting his sons and the non-blood colliery family he loved; over five hundred of the buggers at last count. This, however, was far more interesting, Davos thoroughly enjoying this overly-expensive lawyer growing more and more bothered. Bit of a turn on, having this power over someone with such status in the world.

 

“Mmm. Pop up and stay with me. They came,” and another drink of water because this was war, and Davos knew he would win because Stannis seemed as he he was about to burst, “for a few days to see how we were doing.” A few droplets clung to his lips, and he lapped them from his mouth with an agile tongue. His eyes never left the squirming man before him.

 

“Stop it.” Flushed and damp about the forehead, Stannis glared. His pupils had blown, eyes black and haunted and glittering. “Stop this, this instant.”

 

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Baratheon.”

 

A shuddering breath from the man, teeth gritting.

 

“You know perfectly well what you are doing, and I have no idea how you found out, but I refuse to be treated in this manner. I come here, doing my duty, and you - you! - have the temerity to use my vice against me! And I am sure that if I do try and force your hand in regards to the strike, you would happily inform my family and close associates, but that will not work. Because they all know!”

 

Stannis was lovely when he was angry, on his feet, hands braced on Davos’ broken make-shift desk and cock obvious in those well fitted trousers, looming over the miner with righteous fury. Sexy in his stupidly expensive suit, high-boned face apoplectic and embarrassed in turn. He always had a liking for men with power. Not that he had dared approach any of them, all pompous Tory bastards with no social responsibility, but they provided adequate fuel for a myriad of socialist fantasies. Rise of the Worker. Breaking of the System. Destruction of the Class System. On their knees and begging certain leftie miners to show them the ways of the people. The shortened fingertips found Stannis’ 100% pure silk tie, probably squeezed from silkworms caressed by the naked thighs of Balinese maidens, dragging him into a messy kiss. 

 

Under his mouth, the tension built for a split second, as if Stannis wanted the fight, before a thrilling moan stifled against his tongue and elegant hands scrabbled in Davos’ short-cropped silvering hair.

 

* * *

 

“I cannot believe I am doing this.” 

 

He tapped his Coutts card lightly against the cash machine. Davos had personally escorted Stannis to the Jaguar, announced that the lawyer had far more important places to be rather than slumming about near some pit heads in Stoke-on-Trent, and the strike still held. The miners cheered, waved placards, someone threw the requisite apple core at the car. All very civilised to be perfectly honest. Thankfully. Someone, that smirking leather-clad whippet type, scooped a mug off the roof of the car. He was probably spectacular in bed. Stannis, dazed and antsily turned on, and in that place where all possibilities flickered through his mind like one of those old-fashioned cine machines, half-pictured perversions and kinky outcomes. They probably all were. At the same time. Several times. All over him. That’d need polishing out. The roof. Not his own rampant erection.

 

  
The passenger door opened, and Davos slid into the plush interior. Stannis, in another moment, would have screeched about dirty clothes in pristine calfskin seats, how expensive it would be to valet the car after having grubby miners within, but (oh God, he was doomed) the man smiled at him in a kindly, arousing sort of way, and for some reason the ruin of the leather was not that pressing. His trousers were another matter. Again.

 

“Thought I’d beg a lift. Got to go and grab some supplies, we’re almost out of tea.”

 

“Perish the thought.” 

 

“Aye, you’ve not seen riots until there’s riots over having no tea. The thought of what’d happen if we ever broke trade with India or China is a frightening one.”

 

Even handling the gear stick felt overly erotic. Palming the gear knob. Shifting his touch on the warm sinfully-shaped head. They trundled from the site, picking their way across rough ground and past a gaggle of women and girls walking up the the pit. One, a very striking redhead in a pretty summer dress, was immediately swept into the arms of the big Scotsman. 

 

“Got anywhere to be?” Davos asked, slightly too casual. He looked out of the side window, waving like the bloody Queen at a plump woman who threw him a grin. “Can take you on a tour of Stoke if you want?” Still not turning to Stannis as he spoke. Rude, yes, but the stretch of his neck, with that well made torso belted in snugly (no one went without seatbelts in his car, thank you very much) allowed scrutiny of the back of his head and nape. The man’s tan finished quite abruptly where his shirt collar lay temptingly. Under the cotton and denim, apart from his arms and face, Davos probably was pale and yummy like that yoghurt Stannis prefered for breakfast. Over fruit. Over Davos’ pelvis. Bananas. Bloody hell!

 

“As much as I would like to see the charms - I assume there are some? - of the city, I will have to decline.”

 

“I’d take you back to the house-”

 

Stannis kept his gaze rigidly ahead, a faint tic twitching under his left eye, trying to remember how to do the meditative breathing his dentist recommended to stop teeth grinding. Never had he driven upon such appalling roads; potholes and faded markings all over. The streets, as they drove at Davos’ direction, were small and cramped, the terraces sadly grim. Not the most pleasant of cities. At all. And he had been to Leicester.

 

“There’s a hotel, it’s a bit down from here, if you want.” Still not looking, still that overly-casual tone.

 

Oh.

 

“I thought you were using your sexual wiles in order to run me off the site.” 

 

“I was.” Davos finally settled back in the squashy seat. “At first.”

 

“They are quite, uh, impressive sexual wiles.” 

 

“And then you turned out to be really attractive.” Davos sighed, scratching his fingers through his hair. “And then I thought, shit, why not? It’s not every day I get to snog a lawyer, why not live a fantasy, eh?”

 

“A fantasy?”

 

The man shifted, thighs comfortable and stocky and just that tiniest bit too far apart. In glancing Stannis almost rear-ended a very badly parked Austin Princess.

 

“I’ve got a fantasy about powerful men,” Davos murmured. His voice, treacle and hot tea and coal-dust, caressed. “I’ve got a theory, but I’ve never had the opportunity to test it. I’ve wondered if you have someone who is rich, successful, good looking,” and he raked over Stannis with oddly glowing eyes, and those fitted jeans were really quite obscene if looked at in a certain way, “you know. Always in charge, all the time. I’ve always wondered if a man might get sick of being in control. If they have a fantasy about some rough-arsed northerner, miner or sailor or someone in a physical trade, coming along and letting them drop the reins. Telling them it’s okay to give in once in awhile.”

 

Stannis couldn’t breathe. He saw the cash machine, snug in a bank wall, and pulled over. Hotels around here were not likely to take card. Not in Stoke. Thankfully his jacket was long enough to cover the straining marring the perfect line of his made-to-measure trousers (and he dressed to the left, unlike his politics).

 

“One moment.”

 

The cold air, slightly stale and smoked like a kipper, was in no way any sort of help.

 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said again, shoving the expenses card into the machine and drawing out fifty quid. A solitary hopeful condom lived in his wallet, so that was at least covered. What if he needed more? Should he nip into a chemist and get some? What size? What texture? Flavoured? Ribbed for his own pleasure? Did Davos even do protection? 

 

Caught in an indecisive bubble, Stannis flailed, stared blankly at the tenners nestled in his shivering grip, then retreated to the warm comfort of the Jag.

 

“Um. Where to?”

 

Davos, who seemed nervous now, thank the Lord (and those jeans, how did he even get into them?), patted him almost companionably on the knee, hand lingering for a split-second over the usual matey time allowed. 

 

“Just go down here.”

 

The temptation to do so was almost overwhelming.

* * *

 

Davos bit his lip, studying the ceiling. This was a shit hotel, but nicer than anything he’d ever stayed in. Paint quietly flaked from the damp bits in the walls, the telly was still black-and-white, and there was no en suite. You had to share the bog with the rest of the corridor. The receptionist, a girl with the sort of back-combed hair and Boy George make up normally seen on  _ Top of the Pops _ , handed him a key without any sort of interest whatsoever. They were deep in the heart of the city, just around the corner from the brothel over the religious bookshop, pretty much in the middle of what Stoke considered the red light district.

 

Before, a while before, if he wanted a bit of action, Davos had gone up to Manchester. The burgeoning queer scene wasn’t half bad, if rather youthful for a man racing towards fifty. All night clubs with awful New Romantic music, boys who could be girls who could be boys. All a bit painted and glittery for his tastes, but what else could be done? He didn’t have sex, not that often; it was just nice being around people who didn’t judge. Of course he attracted enough attention, with his sturdy body and pleasantness, but he wasn’t into being someone’s Daddy, or Bear, or Dom, or whatever the terms that were used. America had a lot to answer for, really.

 

One lad, sullen and sexy and curly-haired, trailing a sweet-faced chubby boy who seemed like some rather overly-confused cherub, told Davos he was wasted in Manchester. A phone number later, a few letters back and forth, and he met up with some distant relative of the dark-haired youth. Brynden was a decent bloke, covered in black inked koi carp tattoos for some reason, joked he was the Blackfish of his family. He’d been in the Falklands, same as Jaime Lannister, had come out of the service after the  _ Sir Galahad _ was bombed and sunk as he lost too many friends. Jon Connington, his hot-head of a boyfriend, made a cake and knew too much about whisky. They drank beer and talked about random shit. It was nice. Once he met his new friends, and was introduced to a more mature scene involving over men over thirty, he didn’t go clubbing again. Not that he shagged either.

 

Which was why, naked and shuddering as Stannis Baratheon did fascinating things with a far too extraordinary tongue, he was in a shit hotel in the bad (no, worst, all parts of Stoke qualified for bad to be honest) area of the city, renting the room by the hour like a gay hooker. Not that money exchanged hands.

 

“That’s too bloody good.” Stannis murmured his thanks around Davos’ cock, the sensation travelling from head to balls in a lovely tremble of pleasure. “You’re too bloody good. Where did you find time to learn how to suck someone off like this?” He reached out, fisting the man’s thin hair; a bald patch threatened, and Davos found it curiously attractive. Just like the rest of Stannis. Not that wanting to have sex with the man was strange; Baratheon was tall and intelligent and powerful, just like those fantasy executives that existed purely in his head for wanking purposes. He possessed lovely eyes and a narrow-lipped sensuality that Davos presumed no one bothered to investigate. Wasted really.

 

Stannis, blue eyes fixing on gold-flecked brown, sank further. Where the hell was the man’s gag reflex? Christ Almighty! Muscles worked, their gaze still remained locked and overly-burning.   _ Le belle homme sans merci hath me in thrall _ . Poetry. Some snatch of a faintly remembered something from a childhood many years before. Jesus. He was quoting poetry as a highly intelligent, serious, high-flying yuppie devoured his penis like Stannis’ life depended upon it. It was that bloody amazing. And he was going to come into that hot, wet, sucking mouth, and he knew without doubt that the lawyer was polite enough to swallow every last burning drop.

 

“Stop...stop! Before I-”

 

It was interesting how Stannis did exactly what he was told. He relinquished his prize with a grumble, tongue slithering into the crease of flesh between thigh and balls, nuzzling hotly. The man still remained dressed, pin-neat, though his mouth, red and swollen and glistening with a mixture of saliva and Davos promised nefarious, wonderful perversion. 

 

“Don’t want to come in your mouth. Or, I do, just not now. Later.” Tomorrow. Next week. When gay marriage was made legal. 2016. Forever. No way was Davos letting that mouth near other men. That was his. Maybe Stannis would like it if he got possessive, if he demanded all of the blow jobs and sodomy? Rum, sodomy, and the lash, apparently the Pogues were making an album of it. Not that he should be thinking of Shane MacGowan if he wanted to maintain his hard on. Would Stannis like being whipped? Bit heavy for Davos, he just got off on the command, not the pain, he was a bit too nice to be all ball-gags and hardcore bondage. But if Stannis requested, maybe he could try. The quality of blow job demanded recompense.

 

“You’re talented. Fuck me, you’re amazing. Come here. No. Strip. Then come here.” He needed a moment. Stannis, a strange glaze overlying sheer lust and turning his expression into something almost worshipful, slipped from the bed and began to disrobe. It wasn’t the most sexy thing in the world, he had to admit. Each garment smoothed, shaken out, neatly folded upon a chair. Quite in contrast to Davos’ clothes scattered all over the floor. A sock had leaped up to drape across the curtain pole. His jeans puddled with his underwear in a creased pile where he just shucked them from his hips. He’d smiled disarmingly at Stannis, nude before the beautifully dressed man, and then he had been pounced, shoved back on the bed, and, well…

 

Both naked now, and the balance of power shuddered yet again. Stannis tended towards the pushy bottom side of things, Davos more laid-back even if he loved taking control. Craved it. Obviously the lawyer found relinquishing himself to the demands of another rather more difficult than he had considered, and that was frigging sexy as fuck. Watching Stannis battling himself was sexy. Stannis naked was sexy. Stannis. Sexy. Everything.

 

He padded forward after removing his Calvin Kleins, all stupid long legs, and sporting a surprisingly broad chest crowned with dark hair leading downwards to well-proportioned tackle. Swimmer’s body without the hard definition, but too slim about the stomach. Davos wanted to take him home, cook good hearty things like lobby and oatcakes dripping with cheese and bacon, fill Stannis’ belly and get some weight onto the man. Then fuck him. Obviously. Have Viennetta for pudding.

 

“Shit, Stannis.”

 

Uneasiness danced across the man’s lean face.

 

“Never in my life have I seen anyone as bloody beautiful as you.”

 

A blink, the ghost of a half-unbelieving smile. Davos fell. Hard. Yes, Stannis was gorgeous and had no idea of it whatsoever. Yes, he was rich and successful and commanded respect. From the exterior this Baratheon shone diamond-chipped and glossy, black credit cards and exclusive banking, perfect, arrogant perhaps with that stern expression, with the expensive wardrobe and flashy car. But then that look, the one that asked Davos if he was being serious, if the words he said were truly meant. That little flicker that cracked the shiny egg-shell covering and exposed the true inner Stannis. Davos realised that no bugger had ever told the poor man how lovely he was. That was so very sad. He should be told, daily, over and over, that he was worth more than business class flights, great tailoring, and gold watches. Much more, really. Perhaps you needed to be a socialist to see that, these days?

 

“C’mere duck.” He held out a hand.

 

They fit together easily, even if Stannis had several inches of height over Davos. Hip to hip, hands dancing through the hair on his chest, fingers teasing nipples followed by an application of teeth that were obviously not a product of the NHS. Definite oral fixation. Stannis seemingly liked having something in his mouth at all times; cocks, fingers, tongues. He probably chewed pens thoughtfully, destructively, biting the lids into little bits and claiming them as his own.

 

”You are-” Stannis murmured, sucking and hungry at Davos’ throat. Marks peppered the flesh between his pectoral and Adam’s apple, an homage from someone far-gone and high with arousal. “You are delightful.”

 

“I’ll get it in writi-fuck, there!” Just below his ear, the bit of flesh between hairline and beard that he kept clean shaven. The other laughed, vibrating deliciously. 

 

They didn’t even get to the main part. The way their pelvises cradled, the tangling of legs, the frantic kissing and nails scraping down backs and up thighs. Stannis didn’t help matters; his large long-fingered hands (no callouses, soft office-worker hands, mind blowingly arousing) cupped Davos’ muscled arse, encouraging a long roll of hips and steel-hard flesh. Frotting. Grinding against each other like a couple of overactive schoolboys, gasping and sweating. Always chatty, even in the most trying of circumstances, Davos kept up a running commentary; each filthy sentence describing how Stannis blew his mind, what he wanted to do in the future, what they did in that exact moment. How big the man’s cock was, how he wanted to flip them over and sink his own hardness into Stannis’ fantastic arse. How he should have just shagged the lawyer of the broken desk, told him who the real boss was, should have made him beg and plead and whimper.

 

Stannis whined, biting down helplessly.

 

“Maybe I’ll fuck your mouth when I’m still covered in coal-dust.” Relentless, hitching, Davos pouring words and stickiness and lost in that zone where nothing mattered apart from the building pressure and the images flowing in his mind. “Grubby hands in your hair, force you to your knees, just unbutton my trousers and make you suck me off. Make you dirty. Or make you beg for it. You’d love that, dirty bastard, wouldn’t you? Watching me wank and not letting you get your mouth on me. Not let you taste my come-”

 

A shudder, another of those thrilling moans, and Stannis lost every ounce of self-control. Heat poured between them, slick and scalding, Davos keening, finally falling silent only when his own climax smashed him open like an express-train.

 

Everything turned a fizzy sort of grey about the edges, and Davos, stunned and shaking and pressing his forehead against Stannis’ shoulder, wondered if he’d come so hard that he’d done himself a mischief.

 

* * *

 

Wolstanton ceased operating in 1985. Even with fifty years more coal in the seams, the deepest pit in Europe suffered the wrath of the Tory government. Punishment, it was said, for the temerity of the mine workers. All over the country, in such places as the mining heartlands of the Midlands and South Wales, the North East, good men lost their jobs. Towns and cities, dependant on the coal industry, lost their hearts. 

 

They never really recovered. Not really.

 

The final time the colliery gates closed, laced shut with chains and padlocks, Davos was there. Always there, to the bitter, awful, heartbreaking end.

 

“I am truly so sorry.”

 

Stannis felt strange in casual clothing, with a jumper about his shoulders and knotted by the sleeves, the polo shirt (always Fred Perry) just so. Chinos in a fawn-stone with perfect creases down the legs. Sunglasses. Wealthy and clean. The Jag swapped for an Audi Quattro. He updated his cars every two years. And here, with just Davos and his son left, he was not even sure he was welcome. Turning up at the house had been an odd experience, he’d looked up the address in the phone book at the local library, Allard telling him that Dad was saying goodbye to the pit.

 

“Everyone else has gone,” the man had said. Allard obviously took after his Mam, tending towards the slightly fat, but possessing the Seaworth gentle expression. “But Dad wanted to go and see the gates shut. Dev’s gone with him.

 

The drive up to the gates was hollow and raw. No wives and girlfriends bringing sandwiches and flasks. No protesters. A few abandoned placards lay broken against the wire fencing, the Porta-Cabin taken away. Every sign of life, just gone. Already the strange desolation of an abandoned industrial site seemed to have settled over everything, decay setting in. Rust. Rubbish. Grass threatening to break through tarmac. The creak of old iron. He parked, got out, saw two men just standing. One, the taller, had his arm about the other’s slumped shoulders.

 

“Dad, it’s the lawyer,” Devan murmured, glancing over his broad shoulder and nodding at Stannis. No malice. It wasn’t Stannis who broke the union. The lad still wore his boots, but the safety pins were gone. His t shirt (inappropriate in the weather, this a chilly October day tending towards the squalling, he should be wearing a coat) sported three black hounds cavorting in a sea of golden yellow, advertising for a local gym. The young man seemed to have aged five years in the months since Stannis first came to the colliery.

 

So had Davos. Greyer, tired. Red rimmed eyes focussed, and the man managed to squeeze a slow, appallingly sad smile. Stannis’ stomach clenched cold, he felt that sick acid chill settle in his gullet, where Dr. Qyburn told him that he should expect an ulcer any day soon.

 

“Stannis. We lost.” That voice, the lovely treacle and honey and tea, chastened and too quiet. “I couldn’t save any of us.”

 

“Dad, you got to stop this. It wasn’t anything you did, the strike failed all over. It’s not your fault. They just fucked us over because they wanted to kick something when it’s down and it happened to be us.” Devan, Stannis realised, was a good boy. Shireen might like him as a friend; she started noticing boys, and it would be sensible to steer her towards a brotherly figure who could protect her sweet nature from being damaged. Maybe if that happened, and Shireen was happy, properly happy, he’d send the boy to university in gratitude.

 

But Davos hurt, and Stannis? Stannis hurt for him. They had bid each other blushing, over-heated goodbyes, promising to continue from where they left off, but as the strike grew more grim and Stannis took on more cases because of Robert’s drinking, never even having time for Shireen let alone a possible lover, nothing came of anything. Phone calls never made. Letters never written. Opportunities disintegrating to dust. He thought of Davos with a sadness, a feeling of inadequacy, a never fulfilled ‘what if?’ and then pushed as much of his emotional baggage to the back of his mind as always, and dealt with the mess Robert left when big brother finally ended up in rehab. Work helped, if only to keep his mind from overthinking.

 

“Wolstanton’s gone,” Renly told him over power lunch. That was how far the firm had slipped; he’d had to draft in Renly of all people, though he was an able accountant and very charming when a front man was needed. Stannis prefered skulking behind the scenes, most unhappy dealing with the schmoozing. “Sacrificial lamb it looks like. Shame, you liked that union rep, David or something? The one who glamoured all you poor lawyers into being shocking at your jobs? The one you didn’t shut up about for five and a half weeks?” Not that he liked his little brother, but Renly was even more bent than himself and he may have said slightly too much during his ‘Davos Phase’. Though the phase never truly ended. Renly, the bugger, noticed things.

 

“Davos.” Automatically correcting. He pushed his salad about the plate, appetite disappearing. “I-I have to go somewhere. I forgot. Sorry Renly, put this on the business card.” A tip of the glass in salute from his amused brother who took it upon himself to steal the rest of the salad and order an expensive bottle of white to go with it, according to the itemised billing at the end of the month. 

 

Devan squeezed his father’s shoulders, then stepped back.

 

“Go home, Dev. I’ll be back in a bit.”

 

“Dad-”

 

Stannis found himself next to the young man, putting his hand on Devan’s seriously well-muscled forearm, causing the boy to frown. Gym and hard work, though more gym than hard work now, obviously. In the almost year between first coming to Wolstanton, tattoos had quietly bred over the once unsullied flesh; an almost complete sleeve of pitheads and the ocean, some obviously important dates (he had that day’s date there, oh God, under one of the big pit head wheels, like a memorial) in blacks and blues and greens. 

 

“Go, Devan. I’ll stay with him.”

 

A queer look, flickering from Stannis to Davos,countered with resignation, before those ridiculous boots bore Devan towards the rusting Mini. He watched them both for a half minute, ready to return if anything seemed wrong, before barrelling away across the wasteland in a haze of black smoke and engine misfire.

 

“What are you going to do now?” Davos seemed transfixed by the motionless pithead wheels, the locked gates so final, so very executioner. More silver in his hair now. His hairdresser always said that being upset proved awful for follicles, and that Stannis should moisturise more. Having stared evenly at Loras via the overly-lit mirror, he did Renly a favour and wrote out his brother’s phone number for the flamboyant artiste.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Stannis hesitated, swallowed, looked up at the still mine workings. Would comfort be welcome after all of this time, or had that particular ship sailed now? Could his pride deal with rejection if Davos quietly told him where to get off? For once though, this wasn’t about himself. A person he happened to like very much, who took up far more of his thoughts than anyone apart from Shireen, was in pain. Davos suffered. He seemed beaten, almost. Beaten and smaller, a shell of the man he met on that fateful day so many months before.

 

He made a decision, stepping around Davos so they were face to face.

 

“First, we are going to eat. Then we are going to go to bed and sleep.” Always that power balance, swinging back and forth, back and forth, some bizarre pendulum. Davos needed him, and he responded. Maybe that was what it was, maybe that was why he drove down the however many or so miles from the Baratheon offices in the middle of the day with a ridiculously heavy caseload hanging over his head? One bloody afternoon of the best non-sex he’d ever had, five or so hours of just being with the man, and Stannis, well. Stannis was there, preparing to pick up the tiny fragments of Davos and attempt to clumsily glue them back together. It could work. Him and Davos. If anything, the strange combination of emotions - sorrow, a need to protect, never pity - indicated something deeper, something dark and overbearing and  _ right _ . If in some way the situations were reversed, if all of Stannis’ hope had fled and Davos was there, he knew without any doubt that this decent man would do the same for him. Looking back, thinking of that one sentence that haunted his sleep, of being told he was beautiful and actually  _ believing _ that for the first time in his bloody wretched existence. The kindness. The honesty. God, Davos would the same for him in triplicate. How had he not realised right then? Why had they wasted so much bloody time already? Berating himself for his sheer stupidity, Stannis leaned in, wrapped an arm about Davos’ back, pulled him closer. Not quite a hug, not yet. Comforting though, as his other hand found finding the man’s tense shoulder, rubbing lightly, soothingly. Under the worn denim jacket and rugby shirt, where he had bitten and marked and claimed, the flesh seemed thinner.

 

“We’ll do all of that. Then we shall think of what to do.”

 

Davos seemed to shake himself, emerging from the no-doubtedly horrific reverie within his own head. Confusion glimmered, but he didn’t move away. If anything the man shifted nearer, thigh to thigh, forehead slowly coming to rest against the crook separating Stannis’ neck and collarbone. He had lost too much weight for his frame. Stannis wanted to wrap him in a blanket, take him home, look after him. Make everything better. Get him away from this awful city, black with taint and memories. Make him strong and  _ Davos _ again.

 

“We?”

 

Stannis’ fingers crept so very slowly, lightly tracing the hollow of Davos’ throat. Under his tender ministrations the pulse he caressed shuddered, fluttered, those sad chocolate-gold eyes slipping shut as the other man finally, inch by inch, began to melt. 

 

“We. You and I. Together.”

 

Davos sighed, turning his head a fraction, pressing his mouth to Stannis’ clavicle.

 

“This time,” Stannis murmured, heart in his mouth, rubbing his jaw across Davos’ hair and pulling him closer, trying to inject some humour, get that warm smile back where it belonged. “I’m choosing the bloody hotel.”

 

* * *

 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> For further information and a bloody good film about the Lesbian and Gays Support the Miners campaign (Davos gets his letters wrong), please watch the 2014 film _Pride_. It's got Bill Nighy and everything.
> 
>  
> 
> **Stoke Dictionary:**
> 
>  
> 
> 'Duck' is a peculiarly Stokey/Midlands term of endearment. Stoke is the place where you call people 'pidge', or 'shug' (as in sugar), but more than anything you call each other 'duck'. Not duckie. Huge manly men wearing biker leathers, sporting great big beards and massive tattoos, they call each other duck.
> 
> Oatcakes are like a pancake, but better. You have them with savoury fillings, and they are unbelievably tasty. Every street used to have an oatcake shop, but now there are only very few left.
> 
> Wolstanton colliery is now a trading estate, with a Starbucks, Marks and Spencer, and an ASDA. 
> 
> Stoke-on-Trent is a city made of a federation of six towns; Tunstall, Burslem, Stoke itself, Longton, Hanley, and Fenton. It was internationally famous for the pottery production; famous names such as Wedgwood and Beswick were founded here. Now, like the coal industry, the potteries (hence Stoke being called the Potteries) is pretty much finished. A few factories remain. The football team remains resolutely and bloody-mindedly, in the Premier League, and has a reputation for being dirty, boring, and, well, Stoke. It is a most unfashionable, oddly multiple personalitied place. Very multicultural, and possibly has the best naan bread shop to be found anywhere. 
> 
> It is a shithole, but it's our shithole.


End file.
